Actually, I have a few more
things to say, even though it’s unrelated to my normal blog posts.
There are a lot of things nobody
told me about being a mom. Nobody told me how hard it would be on my body to be
pregnant, or how, months after giving birth, everything would still be so painful
or just not working right. Nobody told me how so many of my non-parent friends
would abandon me, too busy to care about, let alone celebrate, the little life
I was so excited to welcome into the world. Nobody told me how many of my
parent friends would gloss over my concerns as the stupid, unimportant worries
of a first time mom. Nobody told me how lonely 1 a.m. is. Or 2 a.m. Or 3 a.m. Or,
even, 1 p.m. Nobody told me who to call when the night was too long and the day
too harsh and bright.
Nobody told me how much I would
be judged. How everything I did would be wrong. How people would say I need to
just do what I know is best for me and my daughter, but then in the next breath
tell me authoritatively that what I’m doing just isn’t right. Nobody told me
that my baby’s father would get a gold star from everyone just for changing a
diaper, but I would be expected to tirelessly breastfeed her around the clock
while too tired to get up and do something about my own roaring stomach. Lack
of energy perpetuating lack of energy. Nobody told me how I would have to
ignore the rude comments and long-suffering stares from strangers when I had to
feed my baby in public. How dare I make everyone so uncomfortable? And how dare
I let her bother everyone with her crying? Retreating back to lonely seclusion
at home seemed like the only answer. Nobody told me how I wouldn’t be able to
think anymore. How, the brain that got me through one of the best law schools
in the country and used to be able to handle legal problems at one of the nation’s
biggest law firms wouldn’t be able to do much more than repeat the mantra: feed
baby, change baby, feed self, sleep. Nobody told me how much I would cry. How
everyone tells you beforehand that it’s normal and okay, but then, somehow,
when you’re reaching for the tissue box for the millionth time that week, it’s
all of a sudden not okay with them. Nobody told me how much I would worry. How
I would check 5,723 times every night to make sure she’s still breathing. Nobody
told me what it would feel like to try so very, very hard, and still feel like
you’re failing.
But…
Nobody told me how strong and
royal her little hand’s grasp on my finger would be. Nobody told me how the
sound of her happy squeal would break my heart in the best way possible. How
fascinated I would be to watch her kick her legs back and forth with the sheer
joy of just moving. Nobody told me
how the sound of her first real giggle would make up for the tears of a million
nights. Nobody told me how much she would love trees, and how adorable it would
be to watch her wrap her hand around a leaf in wonder. Nobody told me how full
of awe her eyes would be with every new sight and sound. Nobody told me how the
first time she wrapped her chubby little arms around my neck, seeking a comfort
she could not find anywhere else, that I would realize I had finally found
meaning. And nobody told me that every morning when I pick her up from her
bassinet and am rewarded with an uninhibited, earnest grin, that I would feel
like I had never been truly loved in my life until that point.
Nobody told me how absolutely
perfect she would be.
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